Alphabet Soup
by my paper teeth
Summary: Drabbles of the alphabetical kind.  F is for Final Figments of Mourning /  Her body went unmourned and unclaimed. Only the thoughtless clichéd phrase of 'Too Soon', chalked to her grave to mark her passing
1. A is for Alcoholic Influence

_I don't really sit down and just write. I can't, I seem to have some strange inability to ever sit still. So anything I ever write is scenes because that's all I can ever manage in one sitting and I also mainly write everything at about two in morning, because as usual I'm having all manner of freaky night terrors and shit._

_So I've have begun to compile a set of scenes. 26 scenes hopefully by the end of this venture, as these are all the little tidbits that just didn't have the longevity to make it to a full blown fic._

_So I'm going to try my hand at different genres, different points of view, and some other third thing._

_Also who else is like pisisng them selves with excitment for Harry Potter? Seriously, friday, 8pm, OMG!_

_Though my happiness is slightly damped by Aiden Grimshaw's sudden exit from X factor. I weep for the quiff._

II

**A is for Alcoholic Influence**

II

Jade West, as much as she would hate to admit it, was a complete and utter lightweight.

Much to Beck's amusement of course, downing a couple of Breezers knocked the spunk out of his girlfriend, replacing said spunk, with something else. That something else was was of course a verbal onslaught of Jade vocalising her inner most thoughts.

The party whilst in full swing, was still infant in its life span, as it continued to play out into the early hours. Chaos had descended upon the Vega household in a crescendo of bright streamers, strobe lighting and blind snogging. The press of alcohol fuelled adolescents all mindlessly jostling and crushing together had become too much and the half-sober couple had escaped onto the grassy verge outside Tori's house.

Though half-sober was a slight miscalculation. Beck equalled Jade on the alcoholic consumption front; he just handled his booze a lot better.

The air outside was cooler, feeling like a ten-degree drop from the moist atmosphere of the party. Tori's house was located in a neighbourhood perched at the top of a hill. An empty slipway of green had been left as the gradient was far too steep for development, and a grassy tongue spilled down the hillside, revealing a glorious view of the city's twinkling lights and their rivals in the night sky.

Apparently though, housing was not the only thing that had held up the white flag to gravity. Jade's balance had too surrendered. The only thing stopping her from face planting into the soft grass and continuing her tottering, six-inch steps; was the slender milk arm nestled in Beck's.

'_Please_ don't let go,' Jade demanded woozily.

'Come on babe, just lose the shoes,' implored Beck, for not the first, but the sixth time in their short journey.

Jade shook her head vigorously, and the lost focus on her steps caused her to tighten her already wrought grip on Beck's arm.

'Why not?'

'Cause - they're, kinda _borrowed,_' Jade's usual sober conviction was missing.

'Borrowed?' Beck asked

'Yeah - _burrowed,' _Jade's mispronunciation made Beck smile.

'Burrowed - ah, so small rodents were involved - it all becomes clear,' he teased, earning a light slap to the wrist, of course this movement meant that Jade had to disconnect their grip, and gravity quickly took hold.

From the floor, Jade mumbled 'Well I wouldn't say Vega's a _small_ rodent.'

'Jeez, fuck - this!' She announced, rising with a mix of trepidation and Beck's hand before kicking the heels high into the air.

'They looked better on Vega anyway.' She mumbled under her rum scented breath.

The edge of a song, some mainstream trash with a pounding beat, floated across the light breeze, and in mismatched steps, Jade began to twirl, leaving Beck to watch her from above.

'Do you know how much I fucking love you?'

'How much?' Beck left out the expletive, unlike his girlfriend; he always found the words to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

'To the moon and back' Jade wildly motioned to the sky, spinning and knocking her self over, splaying out across the dewy grass.

Suddenly aware of the alcoholic effect on his girlfriend's consciousness, Beck dropped to her level to check that, one she was actually still breathing, and two that the smile that had spread across her face wasn't just a mirage.

'I still love you Beck, even though I'm plastered.' Little hiccups scattered through Jade's dialogue.

Beck laughed before asking 'Is that so?'

Jade twisted round to answer him, lacing her arms round his neck and kissing him fully, pressing herself to his warmth and then untangling in shallow breaths.

'I am so fucking gazeboed!' Jade announced loudly to the stars.

'Gazeboed?'

'Fine, bushed - smashed - crashed. Happy?'

'Utterly,'

'Butterly - ho shit, you speak funny,'

'Says the _gazeboed _girl.'

Jade decided the conversation on her 'gazeboed' state was far better answered with the warm press of her lips on his. Of course, she now thought that it would be nice to end every conversation with a kiss, but considering it again, it was probably an unsavoury resolve. Sinjin had too been invited to the party.

Beck cut off Jade's alcoholic thoughts.

'In hindsight, you could just use anything to say you're drunk.' He chuckled. '_Donkeyed, _or perhaps _marshmallowed.' _

'You are so shit eagled too.'

'Ah the lady's whit emerges,' Beck chuckled.

'Two can play this game, Shakespeare.' Jade pouted whilst softly poking Beck in small triumph.

'Beyond Harried,'

'Very topical - smash horse faced,'

'Love shacked,'

'Daft punked,'

'Properly flowered,'

'_De_-flowered,' Jade smirked with a wiggle of her pierced brows.

'_Coli-_flowered' Beck countered as their laughter rose up in the dark summer air.

'Completely and utterly fuck faced'

'Nice'

'Ha- oh it is' Jade's eyebrows continued to jiggle suggestively.

'You dirty, dirty girl'

Jade suddenly decided that by some mysterious force she had miraculously sobered up. Unfortunately she was wrong. On rising from her star-facing position, the world took a sudden lurch. Trying, but failing to hide her loss of coordination with a flick of her streaked hair and a continued brow jiggle, she held out an unsteady hand to Beck.

'Care to join me in getting further spello-taped?'

'I would love nothing more babe,'

Accepting Jade's hand he pulled himself up, and deciding that for both their safety, it was probably better if he was to carry Jade. Enfolding her waist in his arms, he lifted her up in a single deft movement.

Though she might not have been able to resist, she did question his actions.

'Is this your attempt at displaying masculinity?'

'No my dear, you are hammered and way too incapacitated to even walk,'

'No shit Sherlock,'

Chuckling, he started to make his meandering way up to the house, a beacon of faintly pounding music and strobe lightings, illuminating the way. With Jade in his grip, her arms flung around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist in some reverse piggyback, she deliriously whispered, 'I still fucking love you.'

Beck paused, kissing her in full, then replying in a similar hushed fashion 'And I still love you, no matter how _gazeboed_ you are' before continuing their ascent to the party.

II

II

Tori woke up in confusion.

One, she was quite sure her face had been smashed in; because the splitting headache was like a porcupine was tap-dancing in her brain. _Wait did I really just think that_. Inwardly she cursed all the beer gods, though she really doubted they had a deity for booze.

And two she was in a kiddie pool. In the middle of her living room. _Oh. My. God. _

André emerged from the kitchen, thankfully clothed; the vision of sanity and looking for all the world as fresh as a daisy.

'My brain hurts,' she whined, grinding her forehead with the heel of her hand and exiting the rubber ring with surprisingly steady legs before collapsing on the couch.

'Hangover huh?' He was acting annoyingly pepped. _Jeez Louise I'm becoming Jade._

Tori, deciding to avoid her porcupine metaphor, simply questioned his lack of said hangover.

'You know, just being awesome,'

'Lucky ducky,' Tori jabbed at André's head in a mock attempt to make him feel her pain.

'Nah kidding, just bacon and a shit load of painkillers. You want some?'

'Is the bacon shaking?'

'Oh it's a'shakin','

André crossed the myriad of mess back to the kitchen and Tori could soon hear the splatter of oil and fat and oh so wonderful meat.

'Where's everyone else?' Tori moaned. There was a crack of light poking from behind a curtain, which was making the porcupine dance faster.

'I think I last saw Robbie on the front lawn, before Trina, well you don't want to know.' André shuddered at the memory before continuing.

'Cat went home with Charlie Glover. And I think I saw Beck and Jade disappear into your room.' He looked up from the sizzling meat to give her a sympathetic look.

'Jeez not _my_ bed.' Tori moaned at the thought. She'd have to sleep on the couch. Or in Trina's room. _No, definitely the couch…_

Said couch was poking her in an oddly hard manner. Reaching round she fished out a small pink square of plastic. From the sea of glittery stickers she guessed it was Cat's camera.

After a few jabbed attempts at getting the right button Tori eventually selected playback. Intermittent giggles escaped her lips as she scrolled through the night's photographic evidence, finding amusement in the pictures of Cat filling the kiddie pool with what looked like grape soda. _So that's where it came from_. She suddenly stopped. A sickening look of utter horror washed over her face,

'Hoooly crap,'

Tori looked sick. The combination of Tori, a camera and a horrified face worried André greatly. He quickly crossed the chaos streamers and empty bottles to be at her side.

'What up?'

'I think. I think I might have photographed Jade smiling.'

Andre took a quick glance at the small plastic screen, before his face too mirrored Tori's.

'Well shizzle my dizzle'

II

II

_Oh how I adore underage drinking. Jokes of course. Too many bad memories to even justify that statement. Jade gets off lucky._

_Shizzle my dizzle is actually like my favourite phrase ever. It's like a vocal version of the awkward turtle. The awkward -suggestive- turtle._

_Haha, I might be the only one, but I can so see Trina seducing cough-forcing-cough Robbie into a 'friends with benefits' arrangement. _

_Reviews and comments are greatly appreciated. Also suggestion for letters G onwards would be uh-mazing._


	2. B is for Blueberry Muscles

After being beaten to a pulp by rabid fangirls I really don't have the strength to write anything prolonged. So I decided to make it as bloody wordy as possible. It's like concentrated squash. Yes.

Sadly I don't own Victorious, if I did, well...

II

**B is for Blueberry Muscles**

Its guts rose up and out of it's crevassing stomach, seeping over the sides, holding its gelatinous shape like a large purplish slug. Teeth ripped it out of shape, dusted flesh powdering its attackers teeth and lips. The residue was quickly rid of with a flick of a darting tongue, wetting lips and teeth for another attack.

It came quick and fast, like previous jabs and snipes; ripping out more doughy flesh from behind it's sagging, crusting back. It made no absolute attempt for freedom, lying limp in clawing hands. Sharp nails scattered scars across its flank, curling up its tanned fluffy hide like a peel.

A finger slid into its gaping stomach, turning outwards, flipping the edges over and tipping out more congealing guts. Exposed, these were lapped up by tongue and fingers in turn, contented growls echoing out. The under muscle was white, as though it was already cooked, dry and baked by it's exposure to open air.

It was rapidly consumed, not hindered by any silent screams. Incisors snipped the garish stained skin, the canines cutting up it's seeded blubber, then molars mechanically pounding; the steady rhythm speeding up its demise. The final purplish globes glistened on raised fingertips, before being slowly licked off.

With it finished, hands were slapped together in a haphazard manner in a feebly attempt to shift some of the powered residue off its hands. After short contemplation of its next target, a hand lazily sauntered down and snatched up the chosen prey.

II

'Really Cat? Two?'

'What's that supposed to mean?

'Nothing idiot'

After Jade's words had stopped ringing in her ears, Cat perked back up and went on to devour the second doughnut in roughly the same fashion as its predecessor.

II

_Just a little snapshot inspired my constantly changing cravings. I think it might be because the German Market came to town and I've been gorging myself on waffles and shandy instead of writing about neanderthals. I just kinda wanted to write something verbose, and this freakish mess came out. _

_The next I promise will be a little more, well, sane. Hopefully. Not._

_Comments and Critiques on the sad mess that I call my writing style are so very, very loved. _


	3. C is for Crushing Colours

I don't own anything you recognize.

II

**C is for Crushing Colours**

**syn·es·the·sia** (sns-thzh)

_n._

_**1. **A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of a colour._

II

_She sees and tastes in colour.  
_

II

She doesn't know when it started, and she doesn't know if she wants it to stop.

She sees and tastes in colour and god-dammit the world looks beautiful.

She finds that if she doesn't think, and just speaks; just grabs and garbles her thoughts, her words come out pink. A hot, daring pink. The kind of pink she wants to be.

If she thinks too hard, her speech; unravels in front of her eyes as an ugly shade of grey. And she can't stand that.

She lives for colour, and so colour she must make.

II

She enjoys Jade's words the most. They're like rich, purple plumes of inks, glancing across her view.

They drop into the liquid air and Cat watches the ripples of her cutting words wash over the others.

Except Beck. Beck talks in bronze; a poetic script playing across his face in slanted shapes. Beck is always in italics and Jade is always in bold; their fonts define them.

Cat enjoys watching their conversations. Beck's words wrap around Jade's poison and softens them, blurring the cuts at the edges; watering them down.

II

When Tori speaks Cat sees nothing. Nothing at all. Not a single solitary wisp curling up into the air. No clatter of golden wings beating down the space. Just nothing.

This worries Cat, _though it should be the other way round. _Was something wrong with her? Or was something wrong with Tori?

When Tori sings, it happens too. She sees nothing. Nothing at all.

Which hurts Cat. She considers Tori a friend. Not a best friend, no - not yet, not like Jade. But being colourless Cat decides, can be very lonely. An ineloquent life of washed out pastels.

Her words are empty; not even rising from her throat. Maybe they're down there, but there's nothing to drive them out, to fish out the colour on tenterhooks. And Cat realizes. Tori's own self-doubt is eating them back. A selfish banishment.

The azure thought plagues her mind daily, as to what colour would Tori's words really be.

Maybe like Andre's?

Because Andre's words are beautiful. His words have meaning; have royal hues that play out in blues, out in the air_. Like sheet music._ When Tori sings his songs, they don't quiet have the same shade. They have no shade at all. Tori drains colour, but its not her fault, Cat reasons, she just hasn't found her shine yet.

II

She quietly observes. Always. Because the colour that plays out in front of her, on her page and in the air amuses her enough. Maybe occasionally that voice inside her head will push out some passing thought, so that a magenta plume will erupt before her and her eyes will trace its path, the sticky tendrils that flashes out as she continues to ramble. The more she speaks the further they reach, it's a game to her.

It flares up occasionally in her food. The further she descends into psychosis, the larger they roar.

When she eats it's an explosion of colour right at the back of her throat.

But soon her food starts to speak.

At first it sings, calls to her, breakfast beckoning her to the table, supper serenading sweet tunes.

But then like everything in her life, the voices turn on her. No longer do they caress her ears with their sweet smiling songs, but rather they hurl their abuse, lobby pain at her until mealtime become too much of a torture to endure.

II

_She's hearing voices_

_Like grating glass_

II

She trusts the blue pills though. Because blue is calm and measured and she has no qualms with the colour blue. Its decisive and a leader and the number five and ten and the sound of raindrops and the word tranquillity and soothe.

She pops the pill and the screams are silenced.

II

_She wonders if anyone else prays for her. _

_Sitting there hunched over; clinging to her solvents._

II

She meets a boy, in the back of some darkened club, the music from the stage vibrating through her and filling her to the core. She hasn't eaten after the greasy face of her burger started trash talking, so she left it alone on a dark street corner and is feeling sick and dizzy and fluttery.

At this point nothing matters. Nothing. Here she's anyone she wants to be and all the attention is on her. This boy wants her, desires her and she needs him too. She's no longer Cat the girl without an attention span, without an off button. No longer crazy, bi-polar Cat, the girl who's all heart and no brain.

His words are golden, tiny puffs of prose rise from his mouth and mingle with the fumes from his joint.

They talk for the whole time, Cat engrossed by his words, words that are like liquid silver before her eyes, tracing themselves through the air.

She feels his hand slip into hers and lead her away, lead her away from the solidarity of the music and the crush of the crowd.

He keeps on talking, this time in her ear. She giggles, delight tickling her cheek. She can't see his words fully any more, only catching the edges of them at the corner of her eyes.

She closes them both and just falls into his arms. Imagining the dancing hues of his whispers. She can almost see the feel of his red warm grasp and the blushing pinks of her cheeks and his lips on hers, the brassy tones of his car and the feel of leather on her back.

And the slow, glassy tumble of her clothes crumpling on the hotel floor.

What she feels next is an explosion. Every colour in the rainbow bursts across her half closed eyes and drips down; drizzling like melting snow.

She's left in a red raw haze as the unnamed boy redresses and leaves her in the empty bed, the buzzing drone of the air con acting as her only company.

II

She calls Jade.

Through the tears she tell her the hotel's name and her room number. Somehow through the downpour she manages to gargle. _Come quickly._

Jade has a car. Jade has an uncoloured mind. Jade has two arms that Cat desperately wants her to wrap round her.

The door's lock clicks open and Cat sits up to see Jade tiptoe in. Her hair is all messy, her makeup smudged and she's wearing someone else's shirt. She guesses they mustn't look too dissimilar.

'You okay?' Jade asks lilacly.

'It's not the first time is it?''

Jade doesn't answer, Cat's words still hanging in the air. So she picks up Cat's dress from the floor and tosses it to her barely covered lap, whilst kicking off her boots and climbing in next to her.

The hours dribble past and they lie there in the dark, listening to the cars pass by at speed on the drenched strip of highway. They lie there facing each other in the quiet, as Cat's tears silently slip out and glance across her nose and cheeks, staining the white sheets.

Jade knows Cat's comfort is in her presence. She doesn't want to question her, Cat's tears say it all, and as much as Jade wants to comfort her, she knows Cat needs space. Empty space to fill Cat's empty grey matter._ Empty, empty space._

As much space and comfort as one can find on the hotel's lumpy double.

II

Later she whispers 'I see in colour, you know,'

Jade's 'Don't we all?' ends the evening and Cat finally slips into sleep, her hand grasped in Jade's, amongst the musty sheets and snow-white silence.

II

They drive off in the morning.

She'll meet another boy in a few weeks time; his words might be purple this time, and somehow the change in colour will excuse the later events. Some how excusing having to call Jade up again. Excusing how she feels the next day. Because Cat lives for colour.

The cycle will end in an empty silence and a hurried redressing, only to start up again as Cat looks for comfort in someone else's blushing hues.

She doesn't know when it started, but she doesn't know if she wants it to stop.

II

_Its hard to describe synesthesia if you don't have it. Its quite a wonderful way to view the world, though I've never really seen anything other than a rosy tint. Though it can get bloody annoying sometimes._

_Reviews and comments are very much appreciated._


	4. D is for Dominoes

_I'm not sure wear this idea came from, well I am but still, I was sure I'd suppressed such past activities._

_I crashed my computer and killed my laptop charger, so I've had to recollect most of it, write it on paper then type it out on my iPod. I have like massive finger muscles right now. _

_I don't own a thing of the cheesy perfection that is Victorious._

II

**D is for Dominoes**

II

The scene before her was grey. A cover of brooding clouds stretched out to join hands with the steel sheet of angry waves at their horizon, miles away in the distance, the occasional white sail pricking the sight.

A light moist, mist played around at her bare toes and bathed them in a raw red glow as she sat, her knees drawn up under her chin, on the wet sand.

The night before, a large electrical storm had ravaged across the west coast, lighting up the sky with its hot, white fingers, clawing across the night and bringing with it a torrent of rain and hail.

The salt breeze was now stinging across her skin as the cold wind whipped her hair around her neck in a noose. She turned her head down against the chill and balled the ends of her jacket up into her fists in a bid to stop the bite of the breeze.

A voice sounded behind her and she whipped her head round quickly to face its owner.

'You texted?' Beck asked, his voice raised against the wind as he settled down next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist as though it was the most natural motion in the world.

'Look what I found,' said Jade. Stretching out her legs a little, she lifted up a foot of branch like rock, to then balanced it on her knee, the wind making it sway like a see-saw.

'Is that glass?' Beck asked, poking it a little, causing it to rotate before returning to a light sway

'I think its from the storm, you know heated sand and shit.'

Beck picked it up delicately and then after examining it for a bit, placed it to his eye and looked out towards the horizon.

'You can see right through it, like a telescope'

'Cool, huh?'

'Indeed' Beck nodded, replacing the glass upon her knee, and then laced his fingers in hers.

'So, is this the reason you called me out here. Two miles I might add' Beck motioned to the resting glass with their entwined hands.

'Does there need to be any other reason?'

'No, though you being in practically nothing is slightly questionable,' Beck titled his head back, taking another look at Jade's simple leggings and top.

'I came out for a run, got bored, found this, and texted you.'

'Fair dos' Beck shrugged and a comfortable silence enveloped them.

Beck took the halt in conversation as a chance to lean forwards and kiss her, tasting the salt from the air on her lips. With Jade resting her head on his shoulder they looked out to the sea. Being the only ones on the lonely stretch the beach meant that the roaring waves and the sound of Jade's steady breathing filled the air.

'D'ya want to keep this, cause I'm not.'

'Nah, as much as I love this piece of - well whatever, I'd really rather not.'

Jade picked at her nails, leaning her head against Beck's shoulder, as he picked the glass back up, examining it for a short while, before snapping off the tip of the stick.

'You broke it' Jade said, playing with the tone of mock horror.

'Opps' Beck apologized.

Switching the fragment to his right hand, tossed it out, towards to sea, so that it landed several metres away from them.

A loud bark echoed across the empty beach.

A dog appeared suddenly from nowhere, a flash of mud caked fur and a golden brush like tail.

It flew out, a sudden apparition from the previously still landscape, bounding across the hard wet sand. Little tufts of beach flew up, miniature explosions of sand erupting with each step, as the dog streaked towards them in a blur of limbs.

Jade rose quickly, yelping a little at the sudden proximity of the dog, knocking Beck back in the process, onto the sand. The shaft of glass fell to the wet floor, cracking in two with a dull thud. The dog stopped in a flurry of sand, leaping up at Jade, pawing her legs as she swore loudly.

The dog, from it's position; standing with its two front paws on Jade's legs for balance, twisted round to look at the fallen glass.

'Fuck off! You little shit!' Jade shouted, batting at its head, as it dropped back down to the ground, growling a little before grappling with the fragmented glass. Scooping the large part up in its wet muzzle it trotted off from the startled couple.

Jade's curses fell on deaf ears, as quickly as the dog had appeared, it left, barking off loudly into the privacy of the sand dunes, the larger section of the broken glass, clamped firmly in its mouth.

Beck, looked up at Jade's startled face, and began to chuckle. Her brows quickly furrowed as she turned to glower at him.

'Fuck you, I could have got rabies or like dog shit on me' She shouted, flinging her arms out in angry exultation.

Jade, still scowling stalked off and set herself down a few feet away from Beck, drawing her arms up to her chin.

The sound of the gulls squeals as they rolled in the air filled the space their silence left.

After a few minutes of fuming, Jade angrily whipped her head around to shout at him again, only to see the white coil of headphones plugged into his ears.

'You're listening to your ipod? Seriously I was just almost mauled by some beast and you just sit there?'

Jade loudly cursed, breaking the silence to rise up off the sand so that she could shove Beck in the arm with her knee.

'What'd you think would be a better soundtrack to this sudden _attack, _Karen O or Big Pink - or Shakira?_.' _Beck mused absent-mindedly playing with some buttons; inwardly smiling at how Jade's face looked when she was fuming.

'Fuck Shakira' Jade kneed him again before he could comment, 'I hate you'

'I love you too sweetie.' Beck cooed.

'You going to still stand there, or are you going to sit down?'

'I'm sitting down because I want to.'

'You look ever so pretty when you're all broody.'

'Not now Oliver. If you try and talk your way into my pants, I'll rip your bloody tongue out.'

'Point taken.' Beck nodded then held up the fallen headphone for Jade to take.

_These girls fall like dominoes_

_As soon as I love her,_

_It's been too long._

_Talks of future with you makes me ill._

'Can you turn that shite off''

'What you don't like the Big Pink? Crazy lady.'

'Don't call me crazy.' Beck just raised his hands up, palms out in submission.

'Its just so fecking misogynistic.'

'Big word there'

'Go fuck a tree'

'I'd really rather not'

'Suit yourself'.'

The inclination of Beck's head was dismissive enough to prompt Jade to continue with her tirade.

'I think you'll find that I am quite the feminist.' she quipped with a quick smirk, her anger at him faulting just ever so slightly.

'And I respect that, but I have seen you burning any bras lately.'

The smirk reappeared across Jade's face. Beck was used to the varying emotions that passed across it, but puzzling enough he found it hard to place this one. It was probably half between 'Cat's just done something stupid' and 'this is fucking brilliant'.

She stood up from the sand swiftly, brushing off any clinging grains with deft movements, and then, just as quickly as she had risen, she crouched in front of Beck, motioning to her back.

'Unhook'

'I'm not going t-'

'Unhook. Now.'

Beck, slipping a hand under her top, unfastened the clip and quickly stood up, distancing himself from his girlfriend.

'Are you okay?' Beck asked suddenly worried by the change in Jade's attitude as she slipped her bra off.

'I've decided to turn my anger at you and your unkindness into a poignant message.'

'Right.'

'Lighter.' Jade held out an expectant hand.

'I quit.' Beck raised his hands up, but Jade continued to hold out her palm.

'Lighter _please._'

Beck sighed and dug into his jeans' pocket, turning out the slip of plastic.

'You have the self discipline of a worm.'

'Your words are always so kind.'

'Aren't they just,' Jade winked at Beck, and in nothing short of pure cosmic timing, the bra quite suddenly burst into flames, causing Jade to yelp loudly, dropping it to curl on the ground.

The dog, as if summoned by the sudden appearance of flames, bounded over the sand dunes, covered - if possible, in even more mud.

Jade jumping at the entrance of the dog, quickly found refuge in Beck arms, all anger wiped away with the fear of being fatally savaged by the small Jack Russell.

The dog, after sniffing the burning bra and letting out a low growl, located the final piece of glass that had been quite forgotten and ran off with it in the opposite direction, leaving Jade startled and Beck chuckling quietly.

A few moments pasted, Jade's breathing slowed and she tucked her head into the hollow of Beck's neck.

'You know this would be the perfect opportunity for the dog owner to make an appearance. You know burning bra and all.' Beck motioned to the surprisingly acrid smoke rising from the small fire.

'And you know you don't have a bra on anymore'

A small smile played across Jade's face.

'And? What are you going to do about it?'

'Oh, you'll see.'

II

_I hate to think what'll happen when the dog's owner comes by... _

_My week has been so bloody hectic. My drama teacher has sprung another performance on us for this coming thursday so we've been hurriedly trying to create a half descent piece of Artaudian theatre. But then our class got to do a Frantic Assembly course on Friday, with an actress from the National Theatre of Scotland. It was fucking amazing. All you theatre freaks out there go check out 'Pool No Water' or 'Othello' on you-tube, seriously, they're mind blowing._

_As always your reviews are so very every much appreciated, and thankyou everyone who's suggested a letter so far, I hope to start including them soon :D_


	5. E is for Epilogue

**things aren't so good again. cue angst ridden characters I will never own.**

_._

_what happens when the red curtains come down and the play ends? They pick themselves up from the theater floor and move on to gravitate to new stories and other incomplete motions. _

_._

The dim strip lighting doesn't do anything to help her eyesight. If anything, it makes it worse. The light glances off the blind eyes of the pickled onions and makes the jam jars gleam. The artificial illumination bleaches the colors from her surroundings, drains the colours from her skin, as she raises a skinny wrist to grasp at the cool plastic of the pickles. Her arm is blotchy and her nails are in need of some attention as bruises and cuts line her cuticles. A band-aid hangs limply on the back of her hand, far too old and past its use, flapping like the ear of a dog at the slightest movement, to reveal the light circle of crusted blood and the still puckered skin from where the needle went in. She grimaces at the sudden dryness of her tongue, and denying her brain its compulsion to devour such disgusting foods, she moves on.

The summer's heat has forced her into tiny shorts and vests to escape its sticky flush from her flesh, but now, standing in front of the large open refrigerators, she feels ridiculously inappropriate. The floor makes her rubber soled heels squeak. Dark grey scuffs soil the yellowy floor from the countless invisible soles. She's not the first to walk this ill laminated path, and won't be the last. The thought is fleeting, but she wonders if she knows any of the owners of the remnants of these disembodied feet.

She now stares at the dairy products. A carton of milk has gone off, stinking up the whole aisle. It looks as though someone's been sick in the bottle; yellow oil settles on the top, whilst white gunk fills the bottom. She reaches over and shakes it. Mixing the liquids together, she hopes to make milk again, but it stubbornly still retains its piss like colour. The smell makes her screw her face, so she turns to look at different brands. Several happy cows look back. There are a few goats in there too. The smiling cartoon cow only adds to depravity of the scene and stench, and she feels as though she's going to be sick. She roots a hand to the back of the cool cabinet and roughly grabs a pint that's devoid of any grinning labels and moves on.

The handle of the pint is cold, making goose bumps rise up on her slender arm and the blond hairs stand up. The summer is nearing its end, and yet again has lost any grip it had upon her skin; the carton of milk could have easily been mistaken as being an extension of her pale skin. She remembers learning about it in biology; a subject she should have paid attention in; something about melanin and skin pigments slosh around in the dirge of other useless knowledge. She grins to her self, she was only at school a few months ago and she's already forgotten everything.

She's standing in front of the alcohol. For a second she wonders whether she should swap the milk for a beer, but she still retains the child-like disgust of the taste. That's where it all started anyway, the whole damn situation she's in and has been in for all her _fucking _life. A sign tells her she has to be over 21 to be able to purchase alcohol. Her baby face would probably give it away and she lost the fake id. She spots out a familiar brand, and picks up the bottle in roughly shaking hands. The label is brown, something about a local brewery is on it; it's a 'family drink'. She never drank it with family. She smiles, remembering all the past cool embraces she's had with bottles much like the one she's holding. Her lips as they press to its neck, the tight sweaty grip and the feverish shaking to make sure _every last drop _is consumed. She sets it down and walks to the cashiers.

The five tills all have equally long lines, so she joins the nearest. An elderly lady stands in front of her, a gnarled hand clasped around a thin cane, the other handling several oranges, sending them rolling about on the conveyor belt. Her basket is filled with random items; toothpaste, flour; bleach. She remembers needing bleach, but it's too late to get out of the queue now, as five more people have joined the mindless waiting. The man behind is balding, little wisps of hair like clouds or the fur of mice, populate his crown and whiskers. He carries a paper and like her, milk. He smiles at her and she feebly smiles back, without the heart to flash any pearls. She turns back round and realizes the cashier is waiting for her, a neon pink nail tapping furiously on the plastic counter, eyes dead set on the clock, watching the hand tick frostily by. It is the mass employment of the underbelly of the local high school that has resulted in this grim faced service. She sets the milk down and cashier beeps it by. The girl's lurid vest and tag identify her as 'Veronica'. What a fuck ugly name she thinks.

The crack of Veronica's gum brings the girl back from her musing. She pays with a crumpled dollar fished from the only hold she has; her bra and hides an insult under her tongue. Veronica hands back a few cents to her open palm but they slip and clatter on the lino. She bends down to pick them up, and in doing so drops the pint of milk as well. It bounces off the floor, denting the smooth plastic. She hurries to pick it up, ignoring the last of the scattered cents, allowing someone else to keep her nickel-plated luck.

Her car is old and parked at an awkward angle. But she only got her license four months ago and doesn't give a fuck about technique, only function. She had had trouble with the safety belt in the exam; her swell hadn't quite fit. The car was still disgusting, a fender-less fade of blue, chosen at a time when she was in abundance of company, and the light blue was just a colour she hoped she be surrounded with forever, but the still crumpled hood, peels and cracks this wish away. There is a stain on the front seat and one on the back seat too. The one up front is large, faded at the edges, slipping over the seat like some visceral waterfall. Whenever she drives all she has to do is look down, look down and see that bloody stain mocking her in her only pathetic accomplishment. She chucks the milk in the boot and glancing at the pink, unused memorabilia, slams the lid down.

She drives down familiar streets, marking how well trimmed this side of town is compared to her dingy apartment. All she has is dying houseplants and a view of the desolate highway. Here, lawns stretch out from the pastel painted bungalows, picturesque scenes of domestic bliss as men mow lawn and tiny children set up tiny lemonade stands for other tiny customers. She finally selects her dwelling, and glancing at the windows, detects that no one is home. She turns the wheel and directs the car into the garage, using the _hidden_ key. She gets out, retrieves the milk, and deciding she needs a piss first, uses the front door. She takes out an old key, slipping it inside the lock with only a slight awkward rattle, the old companions, although a little rusty are perfect for each other, and she grins at those star cross'd lovers. A sharp twist of the key inside the lock and she's in. She leaves them still coupling; deciding they deserve every second they have together, and follows the hallway.

She knows already where everything is. She sees an open, sticker littered door. The bedroom walls are pastel blue, like most rooms in the world are. It's like a picture. A picture that has been burnt into the back of her eyes from the countless times she's seen it before. That same periwinkle blue. The amount of times she's entered the room rolls a tear into her vision, and the finality of the fact that this will be her last makes it fall. Books are open on the desk; the bed is still rumpled, not that she really spent time in it; _most times it was on the floor_. Pictures are drooping from the walls, the blue-tact stretching from time, sagging from the weight of the mishmash of polariods and postcards. The only real disruption is the open wardrobe. Clothes have been ripped out; some are still strewn across the carpet. Next to a sock is a small stain. She smirks; her whole life is a document of stains.

Her full bladder stops her from staying too long in the room. She opens the milk whilst on the toilet and chugs some down, letting the white liquid run down her chin and splash across her bare thighs. When finished pissing she washes her hand quickly, and doesn't bother to flush.

Back in the garage she shuts the door with a remote she knows is hidden in a small box. She returns to the car and turns on the engine. The car groans, dejects and wails, not wanting to partake. After a few sharp turns of the key in the ignition, the engine finally begins to rumble. She opens the milk and drains the final dregs from the carton, not caring for the spills down her chest.

Once more she looks at the stain between her thighs. She slumps in the seat, wiping her mouth.

And waits.

.

.

_It always bothers me, the idea of whats next, you can't just live a life of conclusions._

_Subtly is something which is hideously hard to write, but my favourite thing when done correctly. I didn't want to be so blunt about what's happening, rather allow you to imagine, and conjure up your own story, to flesh out this desolate skeleton of a story. Deduction, deduction. Like how my mum found the face mask fingerprints on the spirits. Damn my beauty routines. _

_Have your own opinions or suggestions as to what this mishmash is about? Please do leave a comment, critique or review. _


	6. F is for Final Figments of Mourning

_F is for Final Figments of Mourning_

_I just couldn't quite shake the fragments of last piece I wrote, the previous chapter, from my mind, and this, ungainly sequel sprawled out. I guess you could read this without reading the other, but this follows _E is for Epilogue_, so avoiding to much shameless self advertisement, I really would recommend you read that first._

_Angst in the direct product of having no will to leave your bed. The world is too grey for my presence right now._

_Still, I own nothing. _

.

Her body went unmourned and unclaimed.

So she was buried in amongst the yellowing mass grave of autumn. Countless curling bodies lay scattered across the grass, stems reaching out to stems as their autumnal bodies fell upon one another, creating a happy mash of rotting leaves. The trees were the only ones to mark her passing, throwing their limbs upon her unmarked grave.

A thoughtless mind, one who knew nothing really of who the girl had been, simply inscribed across the black granite.

_Jade West _

_May 21__st__ 1994 - August 23__rd__ 2011_

The receptionist then chose the ungainly message that would follow after glancing down at the girl's deathly pallor.

_Too soon_

.

It was a week later that the first chalky inscription made its appearance.

Cult phrases crossed their white flaky fingers across the head stone, spelling out to start with,

_Obviously, Doctor, you've never been a 13-year-old girl_

.

This amused Rachael, the receptionist, greatly.

The morgue had set up shop in the centre of the sprawling graveyard, so costumers could take a walk through their large gallery of work before entering. The grey stone building was a bleak obelisk in amongst the teeth that littered the great mouth of green, a refuge from the whistling wind.

Rachael had to walk through the graves every morning and every night. Fear of attack from some supernatural force had soon waned six months into the job, and now she merely bid a mental adieu to the faceless dead as she passed them on her way home to comfort.

She'd been handed the task of handling the unclaimed. Mostly the elderly; those who had outlived everyone else; those whose family tree had forked and expanded onto other, unreachable continents.

But never before had she, _met_ anyone younger than at least a couple of decades. This young, baby faced girl was her first, delivered from the hospital, already wrapped tightly in white linen, eyes naturally closed, mouth and nose delicately filled with tissue. A quick note pinned to her white carriage giving the surface details, and then the scrawled note; _suicide._

She'd been delivered naked, and Rachael, guessing her size, bought a modest green dress, golden straps, so even six foot under, she was dressed for the season she died in. She just looked like a girl who dressed in colour.

.

The first slogan appeared a week after she'd been buried. It was possibly it was just a passing mourner, who with spontaneous interest, had taken pity on her flowerless grave, and had imparted some human presence.

A day later, Rachel, not understanding the phrase at first, had looked it up, and finding its thirteen year old source, had realized its nod to teenage suicide, had realized, it was fully intended.

The autumnal rain raised its head, and drenched the graveyard with its pattering fingers across the stony figures. The falling leaves were bathed in a dewy breath and the grassy verge was once again, cleaned.

.

_Come on skinny love, _came next, this time in a light green pastel. Rachael suspected that someone had stolen a younger siblings play chalks and was now plaguing this poor dead girl with stolen lyrics.

With every frequent rainfall, a collection of forlorn and far too late declarations in the form of Shakespearean sonnets would follow. She could imagine them now, this secret poet, hunched over, pouring their chalky sorrow upon the granite. She could see their glossy outline, sprawled across her grave, only the churned earth to separate their embrace. No flowers, only words.

Each time they'd be washed away, but still, the rain was the only tears the girl received. The unidentified author of these naturally synched eulogies would never been identified, and remained a faceless ghost, only the wake of rain to bring on an appearance, then a disappearance.

.

She'd been in the ground for a month, countless words whispered across her granite face, countless falls of rain washing these words away, when the knowledge came to light, of a child.

The small casket arrive, dark smears across it from the brush of dirt, played across the sterile white of the painted wood. Watching it pass, Rachael for a heart breaking second, thought that maybe, the ghost had too found the small grave, and burrowing down next to it, had written words of apology and comfort.

Child now next to mother, their bodies allowed to seep out into the thickest ground, their movements slow in comparison to the leafy covered world.

_Ashes to ashes _

_Dust to dust _

This final grievance, is a fall in the empty air, a fall upon the unspoken ground.

A lonely woe brought on by that milk.

That milk, that milk. That miscarriage milk.

.

_Again, I prefer to leave people unnamed, and allow you to guess who it could be. Though, I myself have know idea who I've just written about. The ghost just has good taste in the music and literature. _

_Reviews, comments and critique are wonderful, wonderful things._


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